“The sheet is still moist with his tears,” said Eve, looking at the letter with a heart so full of sympathy that something of the old love for Lucien shone in her eyes.
“Poor fellow, he must have suffered cruelly if he has been loved as he says!” exclaimed Eve’s husband, happy in his love; and these two forgot all their own troubles at this cry of a supreme sorrow. Just at that moment Marion rushed in.
“Madame,” she panted, “here they are! Here they are!”
“Who is here?”
“Doublon and his men, bad luck to them! Kolb will not let them come in; they have come to sell us up.”
“No, no, they are not going to sell you up, never fear,” cried a voice in the next room, and Petit-Claud appeared upon the scene. “I have just lodged notice of appeal. We ought not to sit down under a judgment that attaches a stigma of bad faith to us. I did not think it worth while to fight the case here. I let Cachan talk to gain time for you; I am sure of gaining the day at Poitiers—”
“But how much will it cost to win the day?” asked Mme. Séchard.
“Fees if you win, one thousand francs if we lose our case.”
“Oh, dear!” cried poor Eve; “why, the remedy is worse than the disease!”
Petit-Claud was not a little confused at this cry of innocence enlightened by the progress of the flames of litigation. It struck him too that Eve was a very beautiful woman. In the middle of the discussion old Séchard arrived, summoned by Petit-Claud. The old man’s presence in the chamber where his little grandson in the cradle lay smiling at misfortune completed the scene. The young attorney at once addressed the newcomer with:
“You owe me seven hundred francs for the interpleader, Papa Séchard; but you can charge the amount to your son in addition to the arrears of rent.”
The vinedresser felt the sting of the sarcasm conveyed by Petit-Claud’s tone and manner.
“It would have cost you less to give security for the debt at first,” said Eve, leaving the cradle to greet her father-in-law with a kiss.
David, quite overcome by the sight of the crowd outside the house (for Kolb’s resistance to Doublon’s men had collected a knot of people), could only hold out a hand to his father; he did not say a word.
“And how, pray, do I come to owe you seven hundred francs?” the old man asked, looking at Petit-Claud.
“Why, in the first place, I am engaged by you. Your rent is in question; so, as far as I am concerned, you and our debtor are one and the same person. If your son does not pay my costs in the case, you must pay them yourself.—But this is nothing. In a few hours David will be put in prison; will you allow him to go?”
“What does he owe?”
“Something like five or six thousand francs, besides the amounts owing to you and to his wife.”
The speech roused all the old man’s suspicions at once. He looked round the little blue-and-white bedroom at the touching scene before his eyes—at a beautiful woman weeping over a cradle, at David bowed down by anxieties, and then again at the lawyer. This was a trap set for him by that lawyer; perhaps they wanted to work upon his paternal feelings, to get money out of him? That was what it all meant. He took alarm. He went over to the cradle and fondled the child, who held out both little arms to him. No heir to an English peerage could be more tenderly cared for than this little one in that house of trouble; his little embroidered cap was lined with pale pink.
“Eh! let David get out of it as best he may. I am thinking of this child here,” cried the old grandfather, “and the child’s mother will approve of that. David that knows so much must know how to pay his debts.”
“Now I will just put your meaning into plain language,” said Petit-Claud ironically. “Look here, Papa Séchard, you are jealous of your son. Hear the truth! you put David into his present position by selling the business to him for three times its value. You ruined him to make an extortionate bargain! Yes, don’t you shake your head; you sold the newspaper to the Cointets and pocketed all the proceeds, and that was as much as the whole business was worth. You bear David a grudge, not merely because you have plundered him, but because, also, your own son is a man far above yourself. You profess to be prodigiously fond of your grandson, to cloak your want of feeling for your son and his wife, because you ought to pay down money hic et nunc for them, while you need only show a posthumous affection for your grandson. You pretend to be fond of the little fellow, lest you should be taxed with want of feeling for your own flesh and blood. That is the bottom of it, Papa Séchard.”
“Did you fetch me over
